


Reflections

by starcrossedgirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Darkfic, M/M, POV Second Person, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-19
Updated: 2012-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-29 18:43:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcrossedgirl/pseuds/starcrossedgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You look in the mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> Uhm. This is... highly experimental? I'm not sure if it does what I intend it to, so any feedback would be hugely appreciated. I needed to get this out; hopefully I can get back to less weird things, soon!  
>  **Disclaimer:** ...not bloody likely.  
>  **Additional Warnings (highlight to view):**
> 
> darkfic, psychological horror, implications of very bad things (chan, abuse), second-person POV, abuse of stylistic devices

You look in the mirror, and it’s --

Flashforward, flashback: sneers and jeers and puppy-dog tears -- memories invaded and secrets untold; a sharp edge of silver, and a round flash of gold.

You’re not there, now.

Sixteen is too young. Sixteen is for fumbling hands, for shared exploration with jittery laughs; it’s for carefree abandon, first break-ups and starts. It’s not for rapid obsessions and learning the darkest of dark.

You never had sixteen. (You pretended, you tried.)

You look in the mirror and your hair is a mess: long, twisted strands, greasy, unkempt.

Fifteen is too young. Fifteen is for hand-holding, walks by the lake; it’s for nervy anticipation of exams that you’ll take. It’s not for caregivers ignoring your terror and fear; it’s not for losing the one in your life you hold dear.

You never had fifteen. (You lied, oh how you lied.)

You look in the mirror and you see the scar: curling and twisting bold on your --

Flashforward, now: a small white-washed cottage, crumpets and tea; long conversations and strolls by the sea. Cauldrons and broomsticks which rest side by side; belonging and safety -- fall asleep, limbs entwined. Or does this seem more likely: your wand at his throat and his against yours; him on his knees, or perhaps on all fours. Flip it around and it’s him in control; choose the future you want, pick your poison and go.

You can’t do that. You want them all, since fourteen got under your skin, since thirteen left you sick to the stomach, roiling within. You want none of them, nothing, because fourteen’s atrocious and thirteen perverse --

Twelve, at the least, was untouched by this curse.

Perhaps he’s not in your future, though he’s your present, your past. You look in the mirror; your laugh rebounds off the glass: he’s woven into your feelings, your thoughts and your mask; he’s the beginning, the end. He is the path.

Eleven is -- you can’t even go there. (But you did, you didn’t. Just the once, you weren’t, you wouldn’t, he wasn’t -- there. He was. Never happened. It did.)

No.

You look in the mirror and your eyes are green/black/blackandgreen, either, both, neither: green, maybe, or black.

You look in the mirror; he stares right back.

You look in the mirror and --

One day it will crack.

**Author's Note:**

> I've now posted a commentary for this fic [on DW](http://starcrossedgirl.dreamwidth.org/320209.html) or [on LJ](http://starcrossedgirl.livejournal.com/328092.html).


End file.
